


Soft Kisses

by ineffablynerdy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Sorta Rushed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22113490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablynerdy/pseuds/ineffablynerdy
Summary: based on a drabble idea from a friend, wherein Aziraphale adopts a ritual of kissing Crowley on the forehead while he sleeps, only to be revealed that Crowley wasn't asleep at all
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 129





	Soft Kisses

It had started innocently enough, one night shortly after the Not End of the World. For all intents and purposes, it had been a typical September night; cold enough outside to see one’s breath, but not yet cold enough to snow. It had rained, off and on, through the day, cutting the low number of A.Z. Fell customers even lower and by the time Aziraphale closed his shop, the streets had been empty and still for several minutes.

He moved through the bookshop, replacing novels and tomes to their proper homes and found his way to the backroom, a path he found himself making more and more often. As usual (or rather, usual for them lately), Crowley greeted him with a toothy smile, a bottle of wine, and some rant or another about, well, Aziraphale was never really sure, but it was conversation nonetheless and for it, the angel was happy.

The first time, with several bottles of Italian Sangiovese between them, it hadn’t taken long for Crowley to nod off on the couch. They’d both had a very stressful day, tying up loose ends from the Apoca-not, and with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley fell into a half-sleep, adamantly muttering something under his breath about Barcelona.

A warmth ached in Aziraphale’s chest and he busied himself, collecting glasses and straightening empty bottles away from any books at their feet. Crowley easy slid onto his back to fill Aziraphale’s empty space, sunglasses skewed across his nose, mumbled something of physics as he sank more comfortably into the couch. Aziraphale gave a snap downwards.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was thick with sleep, exhaustion, and the angel shushed him softly, pulling a miracled blanket over his shoulders. Nearly instantly, Crowley’s soft snores filled the room, a cup of tea sat warmly beside the couch, ready for when he woke.

Aziraphale smiled softly, watching as Crowley’s chest raised and lowered with breath he didn’t need. He reached forward, pulling the glasses from Crowley’s nose to set on the table, and leaned forward again.

The first time, it was almost instinctual. The first time, he hadn’t even thought about it.

Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead, mumbling a soft prayer for sweet dreams.

In the following moments, despite the way his Corporation followed in well-worn footsteps through his bookshop, Aziraphale bumbled over his thoughts, fidgeting against that warmth in his chest. It was to be a night filled with questions.

-*-*-*-

The second time, Aziraphale doesn’t have any answers.

They have wine and good conversation, like so many other nights. Crowley barks out a laugh as he regales his deeds to Aziraphale. He’s particularly proud of having tempted a woman to buy a second pair of heels...And the pair he bought himself, bright red pumps thrown across the back of the couch.

It doesn’t take long, and Crowley’s properly sloshed, falling asleep against the angel’s shoulder. Again, a blanket materializes, this time from upstairs, and shoes are removed. Crowley’s stopped hiding behind his glasses now, and he’s eased onto the couch, stubbornly murmuring protests against Aziraphale’s waistcoat. He’s tucked in, made comfortable, kissed on the forehead, and left to slip into slumber while a storm outside brews.

He’s frustrated and curious, but only after the fact, as he lingers in the doorway. Crowley’s been spending more and more time in his bookshop in the past months, if the newly acquired house plants are any indication. Half a dozen snake plants adorned the windowsills, a maidenhair hung above a reading nook, and somehow, his wily not-so-adversary had snuck in a Norfolk Island pine tree; its needles utterly perfect.

Aziraphale tried to not think about what that may mean.

He gave a sigh and padded upstairs, cocoa in his hands long cold. It was the same argument he mulled over every night; an argument that had seen more of its fair share of centuries but had never plagued Aziraphale more than it had recently. Aziraphale settled himself on the bed Crowley had urged him to buy. It was nice; comfortable and supportive and... 

And that argument, was, frankly, he was an  _ idiot _ .

So many millennia, ignoring everything right in front of his eyes. It took a lot of work...Countless eyes looking over so many kind acts, gentle smiles. The large cloud of pure  _ love _ Crowley thought he hid so well. Aziraphale chuckled to himself, soaking in the comfort of that same cloud downstairs. It had only grown and swelled since he first felt it in Rome, but now it reared its head much more frequently. It was allowed to now. Who would stop it? Who  _ could _ ?

Aziraphale frowned at the pang of guilt shot up his spine.

-*-*-*-

He’s since lost count of how many times it’s happened by now.

It’s a cozy day in January, with snow-covered streets outside and a warm fire in, and Crowley’s taken up space on his couch (because, really, it’s Crowley’s couch), spinning a pair of knitting needles between his fingers. He’s made himself quite at home in Aziraphale’s bookshop over the year, and the angel can’t bring himself to protest; carrying two cups of tea from the kitchen was second nature at this point, an extra wine glass, an extra body sharing his bed. There’s several more plants decorating the empty spaces between books, and more than a few need daily tending. A. Z. Fell & Co. feels more lived-in than ever, thanks to the serpent arguing with his yarn.

“Y’see, angel,  trouble's just the bits-in-between!” He snarks across the den, plucking at a particularly pesky knot. Crowley grins to himself once it comes free and scrunches his nose up at Aziraphale, who’s just sat down a steaming cup of cocoa. “Figure those out, you’ve a jumper in no time.” The angel can’t help a chuckle, giving Crowley’s so-called jumper a once over. It’s a five-sleeved thing, with an overly large neck. Er, rather, waist? 

“You’re right, dear boy,” Aziraphale cards his free hand through the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck, though not hesitantly. A new gesture, one that’s slowly becoming normal, just discovered in the past weeks when Crowley’s nightmares had proved just a bit too much. He feels tension loosen from Crowley’s shoulders and steadies his nerves with a sip of cocoa. “A jumper for a five-armed cylindrical person, but a jumper none the less.”

Crowley has the audacity to look affronted, but his stitches have moved into another sleeve. Six-armed it is, the bastard. Aziraphale leans down, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple as he’s wont to do, before retrieving his book and his place in the large-backed, overly-stuffed chair beside the fire. He’s leaned more into the Comfortable Shop Owner persona, and it shows, but definitely not badly. 

He’s another four pages into the narrative of a 16th-century folk book before Aziraphale notices the stiff silence. It isn’t soothing, as it had been before, though the fire still crackles and the sounds from outside are muted. It’s offputting, missing Crowley’s muttered blessings and the awkward movements of knitting needles.

“Alright, dear?” The angel closes his book in time for Crowley to duck his head, a soft ‘ope’ on his lips, and busies himself again with the yarn. The new sleeve’s more of a tangle now. “Crowley?”

“Tip-top, angel.  _ Tickety-boo _ .” The tips of his ears are red, the back of his neck burning. He’d usually- “Only you always thought I was asleep first.”

Aziraphale studies the serpent in their den, the way his fingers stumble over themselves, or how Crowley’s pointedly  _ Not Looking _ anywhere but the strings between his fingers. His glasses sit on a table near the front door; never worn inside anymore, and so never anywhere to hide from Aziraphale. The gaze of an angel was heavy, nonetheless, and Crowley gave a wiggle under the scrutiny. He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have said  _ any _ -

There’s a gasp, soft and distant and Crowley feels his stomach bottom out. He’d been so careful, never  _ Too Fast _ , methodical in his growing comfort of Their Side, of their bookshop,  _ their life _ .

“I’ve kissed you-”   
“Don’t worry, angel, it’s-”

They fall silent again, Aziraphale’s book long forgotten and Crowley’s cocoa gone cold. Nothing has felt so awkward between them since...well, since the 60’s, to be frank. The kind of sinking, floundering awkward that made Crowley long for a nap.

“What do you mean,  _ thought _ you were asleep?” The angel had such a way of turning conversations to the more bearable. Crowley leaned back on the couch, puttering more with the yarn than really trying to do any good with it. Bearable, and still torturous.

“Well, nearly was, first time. Y’know, we’d just saved the world, polished off a dozen bottles between us. Minute or two more, I’d’ve never known, angel.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to look scandalized; an expression he wore well and it made Crowley snicker. “Second time, thunder was too loud. Tried to sleep, only it sounded like Hell opening up again. Was about...a week after the first?”

Aziraphale nodded a bit, his forehead creased and lips pursed. He did remember Crowley having a dickens of a time sleeping shortly after the Not End, unless aided with great amounts of alcohol. Nearly three months of the Bentley sitting idle in front of the shop had passed before Crowley could find sleep comfortably. That had been when Azirapahle’s little ritual had first started. A way to make sure Crowley was safe, comfortable. A way to show just how grateful he was to have the demon in his shop and not...well, somewhere else.

“Wait...you’ve been  _ counting _ ?” 

If Crowley could sink into the couch any more, he would have. Finally frustrated enough, he tossed the yarn from his hands, petulantly tangled his too-long legs in the blanket over his lap and snapped, sunglasses coming to rest on his nose. How was it Aziraphale could see the barest hints of everything Crowley tried to hide? How was it Crowley laid himself bare each and every time?

“About...450 times, angel. Rough estimate, mind. Can’t be sure I wasn’t actually asleep for a few.” The air hung heavy, like it had that day on the airfield; heavy and thick and unnerving as they waited for what happened next. 

Time stretched out in front of them. A demon, looking anywhere he could, except the one place he wanted to. An angel, moving softer than a feather on a breeze, closing the distance with military speed imbued in him since the dawn of time. Crowley blinked against the misty tears, his glasses thrown across the floor, a skein of yarn and a haphazard sweater thrown to his feet, the warm arms of his angel wrapped round his shoulders.

The lips pressed to his forehead.

“451.”


End file.
